


Black Ops 2

by ToAStranger



Series: Rage Quit [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek never knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Ops 2

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDamnRiddler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/gifts).



> For the Goodreads reviewer who told me I wasn't allowed to use "cunt" as a curse word in my stories.

“Fucking _cunt_!”

Derek falters, hand hovering a fraction away from the hard wood of the door. His brow lifts and he moves, as if to forgo knocking and just barge in, when someone clears their throat behind him. Twisting around, he stares at the pizza boy for a second and a half too long before the kid sighs and shuffles by him in order to ring the doorbell.

The door jerks open. Scott beams.

“Pizza guy,” he says, bright and crooked, then blinks. “Derek? Are you working at the pizza place now?”

The pizza boy gives Derek a disdainful side-eye. “Dude, no. He definitely doesn’t work at Pizza Palace.”

Scott frowns. “Oh.”

“Listen, I’ve got six other pies in the back of my Honda,” the kid grunts, holding the two boxes out for Scott to take. “So could you give me the twenty bucks you owe me?”

“Right,” Scott nods, passing the pizza off to Derek in order to rummage around in his pockets. “Here. Keep the change.”

The pizza boy takes the crumpled bills and palm full of change, nose wrinkling, and his tone is droll when he speaks. “All two dollars and… twenty seven cents of it. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Scott grabs Derek by the elbow and drags him inside, just in time to hear another loud string of curses waft back from the living room. He shuts the door behind them, ushering Derek into the kitchen.

Standing at the head of the table, Stiles’ father gives them both a pinched look. He places his hands on his hips and sighs.

“I thought it was just you and Stiles tonight,” he says.

“Isaac too,” Scott chirps, gesturing to the boxes still in Derek’s arms. “Want a slice before the night shift, Mr. Stilinski?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “My son would kill me.”

“Probably,” Scott nods solemnly.

The Sheriff glances between them, then shrugs, looking resigned and looking like this has happened a million times before. Derek shifts from foot to foot.

“Just…” The Sheriff rubs a hand over his jaw. “Make sure he doesn’t break anything again?”

Scott’s shoulders roll back. “I’ll make sure of it.”

As if on cue, there is a loud bang and another slur of curses. The Sheriff winces, already heading for the front door Derek had just walked in through.

“Have a good night,” he says over his shoulder. “Don’t get into trouble.”

“Yes, sir!” Scott calls.

Derek has no idea what’s happening.

“Scott, is that the pizza?” Stiles yells from the living room.

Instead of answering, Scott drags Derek in after him. “One large meat lovers and one large Hawaiian.”

Stiles doesn’t look away from the screen, a loud barrage of simulated gunfire pouring from the speakers, and Derek watches as Stiles snipes someone from a ridiculous distance.

“Fuck, yeah!” He yells, legs flailing out, kicking the coffee table with a harsh sound. “Suck my dick, you chode munchers!”

Scott moves the coffee table out of Stiles’ range. “Derek’s here.”

“Hey, Derek.” Stiles mutters. “Why’s Derek here?”

“Dunno,” Scott shrugs, glancing his way. “Derek, why are you here?”

“Isaac texted me,” he says.

“Oh, awesome.” Scott nods. “You can put the pizza down if you want.”

Derek does. He sets it down slow on the coffee table, eyes darting between Stiles and the screen Stiles is so intent on watching. He crosses his arms and gestures with his chin, brows pinching.

“What, uh… What’s he getting so riled up for?”

Scott snorts. “This is definitely not riled up.”

“It isn’t—?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles hisses, one of his knees bouncing, and Derek glances at the screen, sees the player Stiles is controlling dead on the ground. “Where was my cover, you cunt nuggets?”

“Who’s he talking to?” Derek frowns.

“His usual COD team,” Scott shrugs. “Two forty year old dudes, a twenty year old chick, and some twelve year old that kicks his ass every time.”

“He’s some kind of prodigy, Scottie, I told you.” Stiles barks, jaw going tight, and then he starts yelling into his mic again, grin broad. “Nice shot, cock sucker! That was right in that dude’s lower dick area.”

Derek rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

From behind them, Isaac pads in laughing, pulling a scarf from around his neck and dropping it over the back of the couch as he begins to shed his jacket. “Glad you could make it, Derek.”

“ _This_ is what you called me here for?” Derek shoots him a dark look.

“Nah,” Isaac shakes his head, making himself at home on Stiles’ couch, arms spread across the back as he watches the screen. “After Stiles finishes this round, we’re gonna gear up Smash Bros. I needed to even the odds a little and Erica and Boyd are out seeing a movie tonight.”

“You’re gonna Smash with us?” Scott asks, expression pinching.

“No,” Derek grunts just as Isaac chimes “yes.”

Scott sighs. “Well… take a seat then. Stiles has to finish up, and then we can get started—“

“—I’m gonna cut these guys’ heads off, peal their scalp and face off of the skull, and wear that shit like a mask on the next match.” Stiles mumbles into his mic, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “And then I’m gonna suck their friend’s dick while wearing it! Get your shit together, chodes!”

Isaac starts laughing. Derek nearly chokes on his own tongue.

“You should see him play CS: GO,” Scott mutters, plopping down onto the floor and snatching up a slice of pizza.

Derek tentatively takes a spot on one of the chairs framing the couch. “CS: GO?”

“Counter-Strike: Global Offensive,” Isaac says, chuckling against the back of one of his hands.

“Is he more aggressive?” Derek asks.

“Way more,” Isaac nods, head lulling over to meet Derek’s surprised look. “I was just as shocked as you are.”

“Alright, remember, dudes—we shot gun ‘em, then we collect their tags, and then we bang their dads.” Stiles calls into his mic, already sweeping up downed players’ tags.

Derek sinks into his chair, palming the back of his head. He has a feeling that he’s in for a very long night.

Stiles’ voice goes deep, and he’s laughing as he speaks to whoever is on the other end of his mic. “This summer, one man will be scalping your friends and sucking your dicks.”

Derek closes his eyes and sighs.


End file.
